Bulletproof
by Roselyne
Summary: Way before the NEXUS, Heath Slater's adolescence has been the theater of particularly dark and disturbing events.
1. Silence

**Author's notes: **

1- This idea came up to me after one of the latest **comics** **illustration** I had drawn for Heath, and which he mentioned on Twitter. As the story progresses, you should be able to guess which one it was about. ;-)

2- **"BULLET PROOF"** can be read, even if you know nothing about Wrestling. I'll try to make it accessible to everyone. I'll also try to remain as close to reality as I can when mentioning places and towns. Yet, **sorry for my English**, I'm a French speaking person ;)

3- I have another thriller story almost finished with Heath Slater: **« WHAT THE BIGGER PICTURE IS FOR ».** But since the latest chapter got so few reviews while it was extremely complex and revealing for some characters, I assumed most of you just didn't see it if the flood of fic updates. So **I won't publish the final chapter** unless I get more reviews. Trust me, it's not a mean move,** it's for your own good**! :-)

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**BULLET PROOF**

**Chapter One - Silence**

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Progressively, Bastian Heath Miller unclenched his fists pressed against the top of his head and carefully lowered his fingertips on the floor ahead of him. His eyes were still close, knees and face against the ground in a tuck position. He was trying to guess the soil texture by slightly brushing his fingers over the hard surface. The air he was breathing was making him suffocate. His initial reaction was to cough but a deep instinct told him to remain silent.

He rose slowly, carefully unfolding his spine until he was sitting on his heels. He opened hazel eyes and observed his surroundings through strands of straight ginger hair, masking partly his face.

As soon as he became aware of the scenery ahead of him, he leant backwards and sit on the floor, in shock. He wasn't sure about what he was seeing, yet the place was sporting some familiarity.

Under the blistered and blackened paint on the wall, under the ashes and dust covered floor, behind the half-charred doors and broken windows, it was his school he was recognizing. Moments before – or so it seemed – walls were covered with bright blue paint, half hidden under notes announcing course changes, home-made posters for the "vote for your classroom chief", slightly more professional posters for a friendly sport event against an officially twinned school, which every local students considered as rival. The floor was perhaps not a model of cleanliness, but it wasn't black with soot and ashes either! You could actually find sometimes a juice box abandoned, a chewed straw still stuck in the metal circle opening, surrounded by the fool-proof indication "straw here". Occasionally, there were also scattered sheets of paper, after one of the "big boys" had overthrown the binder, books or pads of paper of a "smaller one". Just for fun. 'No hard feelings, heh? We're not bullies. We're just _playing_ with you'. Very often, the sheets lying on the ground were his own, while thick laughers were rising in the background from his class "comrades".

A secondary school like so many in West Virginia. Schools which had so many common points about learning life in society… with loudmouths and discreet ones… with popular kids and outcast ones… with hitters and submissive ones.

As more and more recurrent these past weeks, the traditional hustle - "Hey! Watch where you're walking, ginger! » - had ended in books and sheets scattered on the floor, shouts and taunts loudly shared as Bastian _(as his teachers and "comrades" were calling him)_ Heath _(as his parents and too rare friends were calling him)_ Miller would systematically curl up into a ball against a wall, offering no resistance, and wishing for just one thing: that his tormentors got bored and moved onto someone else, leaving him the possibility to gather his things and sort out his damaged courses sheets.

Sometimes, when he was alone in the dark, he would let his imagination run free, inventing some super powers which would allow him to resist his executioners, to show them, to get revenge. So they would leave him alone.

So they would leave him alone.

That was what he was repeating silently in a loop, while still curled up almost in a fetal position on the floor. It had started with the usual routine: the hustle, the provocation, another stampede – more violent – a kick in his books, his books flying in the air, mocking hoots and guffaws. Darkness as he had closed his eyes, his face against the floor. Scornful cries growing louder, with some panic tunes inside (perhaps a teacher alerted by all that noise and coming to his rescue?); cries turning into screams. A deafening noise. A feeling of warmth. The silence.

The Silence.

Heath blinked in order to make sure of what he was looking at, and moved aside a ginger lock from his face. Light ash fell from his hair. He involuntarily ran a hand in his mop and shook it vigorously to bring down the remaining ashes. He rose on his feet, mechanically dusting his clothes while keeping an eye on the empty and charred corridor in front of him. A glance at his clothes and skin told him he wasn't burnt.

Just ashes.

He frowned, noting a detail. The hallway in front of him had traces of fire as far as thirty feet away of him. But beyond that distance, gradually, the corridor was returning to its old Pineville high-school look. A glance around didn't help him discover what could have been the origin of the fire that had ravaged the aisle he was now standing in, but he decided not to dwell there too long. He was alone in the middle of a ravaged area. If any supervisor or teacher ever walked in, he would look like the prime suspect; and none would listen to his explanations as how they had been _others_ with him. Others who had most likely provoked the fire – just "for fun". Others who had disappeared, leaving him alone amongst the ashes.

Alone amongst the ashes.

From his gray coat pocket, he took a blue cap with a yellow WV logo from the Mountaineers basket-ball team, and slightly clenched it in his right hand, as if to reassure himself. As he was reaching the "normal" zone of the corridors, his ears perceived a voice. A woman's voice. Adult. A teacher. Someone who could help him. Heath saw some trait of light on the floor, coming from a door ajar on the left side, and the voice seemed to come from the classroom _behind_ that door.

It wasn't an authoritative teacher-like voice. Not even a calm and controlled one. That person was speaking alone, probably on the phone, and it looked like she was trying to keep her voice low, but loud enough to be heard by her interlocutor. Heath perceived some anxious tunes in her voice and he felt some acid bubble forming in his stomach. He couldn't make out the words of the teacher, but he walked to the classroom where she was, slightly cracking the door open.

As he had expected, the woman was one of his Science teachers. Miss Mandy Longford. Her blond hair was held back in a bun and seemed a bit messy, but there was no ash covering it. Her hand was holding the grey plastic phone receiver a little bit too strongly, her skin was pale and her features were tense. But she was a teacher who usually was quite nice to him. So Heath felt naturally reassured and took a step forward.

At that moment, Ms Longford's gaze fell upon him. Heath saw her eyes widening and a mask of fear appearing on her face. Immediately, peaks of panic appeared in her voice and she held out her hand in his direction. Heath thought she wanted to motion him inside, to tell him to take shelter here, waiting with her for help to arrive, whatever had happened in the corridor… But she grabbed the handle and slammed the door abruptly, leaving Heath alone and puzzled in the dark hallway.

What he now could hear from her voice was muffled by the thickness of the door, yet - as panic had probably made her oblivious about keeping her voice low - he distinctly heard: "Hurry, please…!"

Heath couldn't understand what was happening, but his instinct kicked in again. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave. Quickly. Take some distance, and evaluate the best moment when to come back, when everything would be calm again.

When everything would be calm again.

He pulled his Mountaineers cap low on his head, hiding partly his fiery hair, and quickened his pace towards the exit of the school. Yet, he slowed down just as he was reaching the glassy doors, watching a police car parked a few meters ahead of him. After a moment of unease, he decided to try a quiet exit. The police officer in the car couldn't be there for him. No…

Why would he be there for him?

He had done nothing else but wait for his bullies to be done with him and leave him alone. They were the ones who had attacked him. They were probably the ones who had damaged the corridor. Himself was just a victim.

He was just a victim.

He was just a 13 year old boy, a little bit small for his age and with a rather frail stature. And he was a ginger. All the wrong cards in his hand. The ideal victim. The policeman who had just left his car didn't pay any attention to him; his focus was entirely on the teacher he could see running towards him from the other side of the glassy doors. He walked in her direction while behind him, Heath was quickening his pace towards the row of bikes parked on the pavement.

The teacher almost threw herself into the policeman's arms. The latter noted a state of shock close to hysteria, and regretted he had left the station without a colleague. His usual team partner was stuck in bed with some kind of a flue. But this was Wyoming County, not crazy New York City! He could deal with a call alone! The worst he could expect on a working day like today was eventually a hunter shooting himself in the foot while trying to clean his gun…

He resumed his attention on the teacher. Her speech seemed at first senseless. But when Mandy Longford regained some composure, she managed to tell him that there had been a fire inside the school. A strange fire. And the responsible one…

She held a finger towards the row of bikes. But Heath was no longer there.

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**To Be Continued**

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_Meanwhile, go and read **« What The Bigger Picture is For »**. You won't regret it, I promise… ;-)_


	2. Acceleration

**Author's notes:**

1- I'm a **French speaking** person. There will surely be some **English mistakes** in this story so, don't hesitate to mention them to me, I'll correct them :-)

2- "BULLET PROOF" can be read, even if you know **nothing** about Wrestling. I'll try to make it accessible to everyone. I'll also try to remain as close to reality as I can when mentioning places and towns. If you want to go deeper into the atmosphere, this is the **music** I was listening while writing this chapter: **Leona Lewis – « Hurt »**.

3- The next fic I'll **update** will be one of those thrillers:** "WHAT THE BIGGER PICTURE IS FOR"** or **"FIRE HEART"**. Go read them and tell me which updates you want to read first. :-)

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**BULLETPROOF**

**Chapter Two - Acceleration**

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Forgetting all safety traffic rules, Heath was pedaling at full speed on Pineville's main avenue with laces following Rockcastle Creek. At this time of the day, there were few people on the roads anyway, most were at work or at school; or at the pub. The wind was whistling in his ears and his heart was pounding. He clenched his teeth and half-closed his eyelids to protect his eyes from the wind. From time to time, he looked over his shoulder, expecting to see at any moment a police car emerging behind him, roaring engine and lights flashing. But so far, he was still alone on the road.

He had no idea about what had happened at school, but Longford, the sciences teacher, seemed convinced that he knew something. Heath didn't understand. She had to be aware by now of the constant bullying he was receiving from the "big guys". If someone was responsible of any act of vandalism, it would most likely be one of the loudmouth tormentors rather than the little shy one whom people could barely remember the sound of his voice. But perhaps he had misunderstood her attitude and speech. Maybe she had just meant to explain the cop about the fire caused by the boys who usually attacked him, and had only mentioned him as a witness.

Maybe the fear he had seen in her eyes in the classroom was perhaps the fear that the "gang" would come back to pick on their favorite victim, and that she would be trapped between two fires. Collateral damage.

Yes, it was purely logical; it _had_ to be that! There was no other explanation; no big mystery or conspiracy; nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about.

Nevertheless, he gulped with some apprehension. His survival instinct which had awoken when he had seen the charred corridor, hadn't totally gone back to sleep yet. It was merely dozing in the sun like a tiger on a high rock, opening its eyes from time to time in order to observe its territory. Shortly before Topical CNS, Heath slowed down and leant on his left, making almost a 180 degree to take Cherry street. His reduced speed neighborhood; his quiet street; his haven. He took a deep breath and let go of his bicycle handlebars to pass his hands over his face drenched with sweat. He drove by two of his neighbors, old girls laboriously doing their morning jog.

He continued paddling, but more slowly now, a little more relaxed. His concerns were gradually fading under the influence of the endorphins generated by the physical exercise – unusual for him. He hated sports in general. His heart was still pounding in his chest but its pace was beginning to slow down. The wind blew gently against the pale skin of his face as he began to observe the corridor's events with distant eyes, trying to build a rational explanation for everything he had seen and heard.

He was feeling a bit better.

The sight of his house of wooden slats covered with white paint _(soon in need of a fresh new layer)_ brought peace into his heart and he drove without thinking twice on the lawn covered with some leaves. He jumped off just before the steps leading to the brown wooden door and left his bike lying on its side without giving it a second look.

He would never see it again.

He came in and closed the door behind him, leaning against it, closing his eyes, and letting go a long sigh of relief. He was home. Safe. Nothing bad could happen to him now. Long seconds passed during which his heartbeat slowed down to a normal level. A little calmer now, he suddenly realized his stomach was empty and that he was starving. He frowned and checked the old watch he had gotten from his father; he was surprised to see that it was far from noon. He thought about it, then shrugged. Probably all the energy he had burnt. He walked towards the kitchen with the idea of making himself a peanut butter sandwich with a large bowl of milk. People were always thinking better with a full stomach, and he needed to cogitate about the recent events and make sure no one would be able to put the responsibility of damages upon him. He had been attacked. He had done nothing wrong. He had curled up on the floor to shield himself from the assault. He had closed his eyes tightly. And when he had opened them again, he was alone in the middle of a devastated area. He didn't understand. But he knew one thing: he had done nothing wrong.

He had done nothing wrong.

But as he walked through the living room, his ears caught the sound of the TV; his mother had probably forgotten to turn it off before leaving this morning. It was a good thing he had come home early, actually! Heath turned his head in the direction of the noise…

… and froze.

On the small curved cathode screen where colors were not as vivid as in its early days, local news were showing a picture of his school, taken from the outside. Heath paid no attention to the journalist's speech because his focus was rather on the subtitles: _"Supernatural incident at local school?"_

The whole reassuring logic he had tried to build in his mind exploded into a myriad of pieces while his instinct was straightening up on its rock and started to roar. It was _him_ Mrs Longford had been so afraid of. It was about _him_ she had spoken to the policeman at the entrance of the school.

And even if he had done nothing wrong, it was _him_ that the policeman – and probably some reinforcement – was going to find and arrest, when Longford would put her hands on his school records, name and address.

He had no time to lose. His haven was about to become a trap.

He rushed into his room, grabbed a backpack and hurriedly stuffed it with some random clothes. He just added a jumper, for safety against the cold. The child which was still in him reached out for a small brown teddy bear, worn and one-eyed. A bear he had received when he was 3, and that he treasured as a friend. As his only friend. Sometimes holding it against him, waiting for sleep to finally take him over after a particularly harsh and stressing day.

Just as he seized it, he heard a noise at the front door. Several people. His immediate thought was: the Police. Would they listen to him? Would they believe that he knew nothing about what had happened while he had his eyes closed?

Would they believe that he had done nothing wrong?

He stood up and then saw a shadow passing on the window curtains of his room. A shadow holding a gun.

The answer to his questions was obviously: no.

Heath tucked his small teddy bear into his bag and ran out of his room. The front door was besieged, there was still the back door, admitting that the police hadn't already circled his house. He rushed silently into the kitchen. For a moment, he was tempted to grad some food to last in his escape – regardless where his feet might lead him – but the sound of the Police trying to force the front door made him dismiss this idea with a heavy heart. Every second could mean the difference between life and dead. But at the precise moment he grabbed the handle, he realized that the door leading to the garden was locked.

He cast a panicked look around him but could never lay eyes on the keys. Tears of rage almost appeared. So close to the exit. So close to freedom and life… and stopped dead because his mother had probably took the keys in her purse without thinking. He briefly wondered if she would feel bad about it, later. When she would find out.

He heard the front door open with a crashing sound, and the police burst into the living room. Through a side window, he saw the armed shadow moving towards the read of the house.

Heath felt panic taking over and preventing him from breathing. He closed his eyes tightly.

**·..·**

Policemen cautiously proceeded from one room to another, weapons drawn. They weren't sure about what they were dealing with, and the _unknown_ could quickly make people edgy. Too edgy. Officer Philips, who had talked to Many Longford at school, had seen with his own eyes the ransacked and burnt corridor. He had half-believed the teacher's words, but he knew when he had to be careful. Either the teacher was just having a nervous crisis and had hallucinated the whole scene, or…

He entered the kitchen at that precise moment, followed by one of his colleagues, and lowered his gun in shock…

Bright daylight was coming through the open door and was almost blinding them, but Philips could still distinguish some disturbing details.

The kitchen wallpaper was of a relatively creamy color… except around the door. The floor had a warm honey color… except near the door.

But on a second look, there was no door.

Just a gaping hole surrounded by a charred area.

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**To Be Continued**

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End file.
